Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [117]
“You wish me to return here?”
“Yes.”
“Give me Mournblade,” Elric said quickly.
Sepiriz handed him the sword and Elric stood there with one twin blade in each hand, as if weighing something between them.
Both blades seemed to moan in recognition and the powers swam through his body so that he seemed to be built of steel-hard fire.
“I remember now that I hold them both that their powers are greater than I realize. There is one quality they possess when paired, a quality we may be able to use against this Dead God.” He frowned. “But more of that in a moment.” He stared sharply at Sepiriz. “Now tell me, where is Darnizhaan?”
“The Vale of Xanyaw in Myyrrhn!”
Elric handed Mournblade to Dyvim Slorm who accepted it gingerly.
“What will your choice be?” Sepiriz asked.
“Who knows?” Elric said with bitter gaiety. “Perhaps there is a way to beat this Dead God…
“But I tell you this, Sepiriz—given the opportunity I shall make that god rue his homecoming, for he has done the one thing that can move me to real anger. And the anger of Elric of Melniboné and his sword Stormbringer can destroy the world!”
Sepiriz rose from his chair, his eyebrows lifting.
“And gods, Elric, can it destroy gods?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Elric rode like a giant scarecrow, gaunt and rigid on the massive back of the Nihrainian steed. His grim face was set fast in a mask that hid emotion and his crimson eyes burned like coals in their sunken sockets. The wind whipped his hair this way and that, but he sat straight, staring ahead, one long-fingered hand gripping Stormbringer’s hilt.
Occasionally Dyvim Slorm, who bore Mournblade both proudly and warily, heard the blade moan to its sister and felt it shudder at his side. Only later did he begin to ask himself what the blade might make him, what it would give him and demand of him. After that, he kept his hand away from it as much as possible.
Close to the borders of Myyrrhn, a pack of Dharijorian hirelings—native Jharkorians in the livery of the conquerors—came upon them. Unsavoury louts they were, who should have known better than to ride across Elric’s path. They steered their horses towards the pair, grinning. The black plumes of their helmets nodded, armour straps creaked and metal clanked. The leader, a squint-eyed bully with an axe at his belt, pulled his mount short in front of Elric.
At a direction from its master, the albino’s horse came to a stop. His expression unchanged, Elric drew Stormbringer in an economic, catlike gesture. Dyvim Slorm copied him, eyeing the silently laughing men. He was surprised at how easily the blade sprang from its scabbard.
Then, with no challenges, Elric began to fight.
He fought like an automaton, quickly, efficiently, expressionlessly, cleaving the leader’s shoulder plate in a stroke that cut through the man from shoulder to stomach in one raking movement which peeled back armour and flesh, rupturing the body so that a great scarlet gash appeared in the black metal and the leader wept as he slowly died, sprawling for a moment over his horse before slumping from the mount, one leg high, caught in a stirrup strap.
Stormbringer let out a great metallic purr of pleasure and Elric directed arm and blade about him, emotionlessly slaying the horsemen as if they were unarmed and chained, so little chance did they have.
Dyvim Slorm, unused to the semi-sentient Mournblade, tried to wield her like an ordinary sword but she moved in his hand, making cleverer strokes than he. A peculiar sense of power, at once sensual and cool, poured into him and he heard his voice yelling exultantly, realized what his ancestors must have been like in war.
The fight was quickly done with and leaving the soul-drained corpses on the ground behind them, they were soon in the land of Myyrrhn.